Three Peas in a Pod
by Boogum
Summary: In which Blaise tries to play un-matchmaker, Draco is running out of excuses, and Ginny is ... well, Ginny.
1. The Flood

So I started writing this as a potential pinch-hitter fic for the **The DG Forum's** 2017 summer exchange. Then the original prompt writer came through, so now I'm just finishing it because the idea amuses me, and who am I to deny the DG writing muse? The prompt that inspired this can be found at the end.

* * *

 **The Flood**

It had started out of desperation. Blaise had just broken up with his long-time girlfriend and needed someone to move in fast to help cover the rent; Ginevra Weasley was a sort-of friend—okay, an acquaintance of an acquaintance who he'd maybe considered shagging once when he was sixteen, even if he'd also had a zero percent chance of getting her knickers to drop. But he digressed. Fact was, he'd known she was looking for a new place. As the star Chaser for the Holyhead Harpies, she was hardly home anyway and had been getting tired of trying to maintain her apartment while she was travelling—or so had been the goss. Blaise had thought her perfect: an invisible source of money who would pay his rent and never get in his way. Couldn't have been better.

Oh, how wrong he had been.

Weasley didn't do invisible. Even when she wasn't there, her presence spread through his fancy apartment like a brilliant flood of red—adding a quirky ornament there, changing the colours of walls, curtains and cushions as the mood suited, and just in general imprinting herself all over their shared space as if she didn't give a damn where the lines had been drawn and if it bothered him. Probably because it didn't. The woman was a ballsy, no-cares force of vibrancy. Sadly, he'd come to kind of appreciate that about her.

That was the problem with dealing with a flood: you couldn't help but get swept up in it. Before he'd even realised how far he'd sunk to the dark side, "Weasley" had become "Ginny", he'd started counting down the days to when she'd be occupying her room again on the off-chance that she might decide to cook (because eating Ginny Weasley's food made "foodgasm" seem like a real thing), and he'd even stopped getting an eye twitch when he came home to find all of the décor had changed. Mostly.

Okay, not really. That still pissed him off (because he liked the understated, modern look, thank you very much, no matter how often she claimed it was boring and said he had the personality of a plank of wood), but whatever. Some battles weren't worth fighting. The point was that he could no longer deny the truth: he and Ginny were friends—house buddies in the true sense of the phrase. They fought, they laughed, and they coexisted like two peas in a pod.

So when she took a Bludger to the head during a game and was ordered to take time off from Quidditch to recover, Blaise wasn't as upset as he should have been to learn his invisible Rent Girl would be around a lot more. In fact, the only real problem was that her increased presence had meant a third pea had wormed its way into their little pod for two. Three, as everyone knew, was a tricky number to balance.

Blaise frowned at the blond sitting on his chair, drinking from his favourite cup, and bantering with Ginny about something stupid. Somehow, it always ended up like this. Blaise couldn't say that he was impressed. He'd never liked sharing—not his toys, not his food, and definitely not his friends. Granted, both Draco and Ginny were important to him, but that wasn't the point. The point was that it looked as if Draco had also got caught up in the flood that was Ginny Weasley, except that idiot had sunk much, much deeper.

That wasn't friendly appreciation he saw sparking his friend's eye. That was the stirrings of attraction. If things continued in this fashion, Blaise might find himself the only pea in his pod.

Something had to be done.

* * *

Tasha's Prompt #1

Basic premise: Ginny moves in with Blaise Zabini (housemates not lovers). Draco pops in for coffee/wine/tea/dinner far more often than is entirely necessary.

Must haves: a shared cigarette and an early morning stroll.

No-no's: No outraged/ridiculous Weasley family reactions.

Rating range: whatever works.

Bonus points; Draco's excuses getting more and more far fetched.


	2. Stray Dog

**Stray Dog**

Draco Malfoy sat in his very big library on his very big armchair and stared up at his very big ceiling. Only the faint ticking of a clock disturbed the silence. Tick tock, tick tock. The sound was monotonous. A book lay discarded on the armrest with the bookmark still tucked into the first page. He couldn't even recall the title now. He'd been staring at the ceiling for so long that he'd started to see images in the uneven patches of colour on the stone. One kind of looked like his house-elf. Huh. Now that he thought about it, had those patches always been there?

His expression soured. Wow. He was actually ruminating about his ceiling. That was a new low, even for him.

Draco sat up straighter and flattened his feet—bare, because it wasn't like there was anyone around to tell him off—on the carpeted floor. He reached for his glass of wine, only to pause as he noticed it was empty. So was the bottle. Bother.

"Gonky!"

A house-elf appeared with a pop, bat-like ears flapping as it lowered into a bow. "Little Master needs something?"

Draco chose to ignore the title he had been given. The elf couldn't seem to break the habit no matter how old or tall his "Little Master" got, though Draco had once ordered Gonky and Dobby to call him The Master of the Universe for an entire week when he was five years old. That had been fun—until his mother had found out about it and overwrote the command. Narcissa hadn't thought it becoming.

An ache tore through his heart. Mother. Just the thought of her was still too painful. He pushed the memories aside and fixed his gaze on the elf, who was the only one left in the Malfoy family's service since Dobby had—

No, no, no. Draco didn't want to think about those days either. He ruthlessly locked away all thoughts of the past in the box labelled Unwanted where they belonged. Then he pointed at the empty glass on the table.

"I'm out of wine," he declared just like the Master of the Universe he'd once proclaimed to be. "Find me some more."

"What would Little Master like? We has some vintages from—"

"I don't care what kind," Draco snapped. "Just bring me a drink, you stupid elf."

"Of course, Little Master."

The elf bowed again and made to leave, but Draco held out his hand.

"No, wait," he said before he could stop himself. "Uh, stay a moment."

Gonky blinked at him with big green eyes. "Would Little Master like to play wizard's chess again?"

Heat spread on Draco's cheeks. "I thought I told you that you weren't supposed to mention that."

Gonky widened his eyes dramatically and he began twisting his ears. "Gonky apologises, Little Master! Gonky forgot that Little Master is embarrassed to have played wizard's chess with Gonky. Gonky is a bad elf. Gonky will—"

"Oh, for Merlin's sake, calm down," Draco groaned, pressing his palm to his forehead. "And don't try to shut yourself in the oven again, you suicidal idiot! Who's going to cook and clean for me if you kill yourself?"

Gonky looked torn, as if he wasn't sure if he should keep twisting his ears, smash the empty wine bottle over his head, or just apologise. He went for the latter and repeated that he was a bad elf. Draco sighed. This was why one could not satisfy social cravings with house-elves. It just left Draco feeling even more pathetic.

"Forget it," he muttered, standing up from the armchair. "I'm heading out. You don't need to stay up for me."

Except they both knew Gonky would. The elf was all Draco had in the big manor now that his father was in Azkaban and his mother had passed away; that also meant that Draco was all Gonky had.

Draco pulled out his wand from his pocket and then Disapparated with a crack. He appeared outside a familiar penthouse in the nicer side of London. A few pot plants sat outside the door—odd when set against the modern, neutral-toned environment—but they still brightened up the place in splashes of yellow and reds; Weasley must have been trying to grow things again. He could only imagine the row she and Blaise would have had about it. The thought made his lips curve a little. Not that his smile lasted long.

He'd been coming here too often; even Blaise had commented on it. Was it ten times now this month? More? It was scary that he'd lost track. Scary that he kept finding himself pulled to this door like some stray dog looking for a bit of warmth and company. Draco Malfoy wasn't supposed to act like a lost puppy; he was supposed to be the one making people come to him. But they didn't. Not anymore. They hadn't for a long, long time. He sucked at making friends, and he sucked even more at keeping them—well, at least that had been the case ever since his family name had been tarnished. He could have used his money to win favour, he supposed, but that somehow seemed more pathetic than playing wizard's chess with his house-elf.

Draco didn't much like feeling pathetic. He didn't want to buy his friends.

Still, Blaise Zabini had not abandoned him. Not after the war, and not even after Narcissa's death when Draco's mood had only three settings: foul, fouler and foulest. In fact, Blaise had turned out to be a surprisingly good friend—especially since Draco had always thought the guy was just a narcissistic tosser back at Hogwarts. Blaise was still a vain bastard, of course, but Draco could now admit that he was a _decent_ vain bastard. That made all the difference.

But it wasn't thoughts of Blaise that made Draco hesitate outside the apartment now. The fact was that Draco knew he did not come here to visit his friend. Maybe in the beginning, sure, but not anymore. When Draco wasn't wandering the big, empty halls of the manor or trying to stop his house-elf from self-harming, he was thinking of _her_. Of pumpkin spice biscuits and tea; of warm smiles and laughter; of silly banter and freckle-sprinkled cheeks that dimpled into smiles just for him.

His stomach twisted a little. Yeah, he definitely should not have come. He'd even forgotten to bring something—food, drinks, a long-lost item he'd pulled out of his arse—to have an excuse for intruding. Also, he was barefoot. Ugh, he wasn't even wearing proper robes or clothes; just the loose pants and grey T-shirt he liked to sprawl in at home. Bloody hell.

Draco blinked stupidly at his attire and tried to figure out how he'd made such a mistake. Then he remembered the empty bottle of wine. Oh, right, he was drunk.

The door to the apartment opened and smacked right into his head. Draco swore and stumbled backwards. Weasley blinked from where she still held the door handle. Then she started laughing—free, easy, belly-deep laughs that he wasn't sure he'd ever managed to get out of his body. His stomach twisted again, though there were flutters as well. Everything about her was so open and vibrant. He'd thought he'd have got used to it by now, but she still took him off guard every time, snatching his breath away like a thief. Merlin, he hated her. Someone who chose to wear hideously pink T-shirts that did nothing for her complexion or figure—even if it did feature a band she liked—should not be able to have so much sway over him.

Where was his dignity? Where was his self-control?

"You know," he gritted out, pulling himself together and still holding a hand to his throbbing head, "most people apologise when they hit someone with a door; they don't just stand there and laugh."

"I'm not most people." Her eyes danced. "Besides, it was funny. BAM!" She mimicked the door hitting his face. "Just like that."

He glowered at her. She sobered enough to offer him what might have passed for a conciliatory smile.

"Alright, alright." She moved forward. "Stop scowling at me."

He was startled when she leaned up on her tiptoes and pushed back his hair to examine his forehead. Their faces were very close—close enough to count the freckles on her nose and cheeks. Close enough to feel her breath on his skin, like the teasing caress before a kiss. A shiver passed down his spine.

She made a thoughtful sound. "Yep, you got a bump. Looks pretty painful."

"It is painful. Were you trying to battle with the bloody door?"

A laugh escaped her. "Don't be such a baby. Here, come inside and I'll get some ice for you."

Her hand found his and tugged him through the open doorway. Draco was annoyed that his pulse quickened at the contact. She was always doing things like this—careless touches, careless smiles. Just careless and open all the time, as if it was perfectly natural to be close to him. It made him confused and happy and frustrated all in one. Most people treated him like a pariah. Maybe that was why he always came back here. Sometimes he hated her for the way she made him feel, but he also couldn't get enough of her.

Ugh, he really was pathetic.

"Sit," she ordered, releasing his hand and gesturing at the sofa.

Draco glanced around the living room. "Where's Blaise?"

"Work dinner."

His heart gave a funny jolt in his chest. They were alone. He wasn't sure if they'd ever been alone together before.

Weasley sat next to him on the couch, though perched was probably a better word. She brought her legs up close to her chest. He noticed she was barefoot as well; it was weirdly intimate. She conjured an icepack with her wand and then pressed her fingers to his cheek, tilting his face more her way so she could press the icepack to his bump. Draco let her do as she pleased; he found it difficult to resist her on the best of days, and he was pretty much sloshed right now. Granted, he didn't slur his words or seem overly intoxicated, but that was just on the outside. In reality, it was a miracle he hadn't splinched himself when he'd Apparated.

"Wanna tell me what's going on?" she asked after a moment as she continued to hold the icepack to his head.

He blinked a bit dazedly. "Huh?"

She laughed and tapped him on the nose. "You are drunk, Draco Malfoy. Don't think I didn't notice."

His cheeks warmed.

"I also don't think I've ever seen you dressed so—" she cast an eye over his attire "—dressed down. So, what's up? Blaise isn't here, but maybe I can help."

She actually sounded sincere for all her teasing. He knew that she would have listened to him if he'd wanted to talk—would have even offered him comfort and advice if necessary. But Draco didn't want to talk. He realised that he'd just wanted to be near her: all her warmth, all her vibrancy. Most of the time he felt like a ghost lost in some liminal space with all the other ghosts that lived inside his head. Weasley made him feel more human, more real, like he could actually be part of the world again, even if he couldn't get the Dark Mark off his arm.

"Do you have any of those pumpkin spice biscuits left?" he asked out of the blue.

Her mouth twitched. "Blaise ate them all."

A pout jutted his bottom lip. "That bastard."

"You like them that much?"

He nodded, too drunk to filter his thoughts. Sober Draco never gave her compliments.

Weasley stood up. "Well, I did hit you with the door." She offered him the icepack. "Here. I'll go make some more."

"You will?"

Something about his expression must have entertained her, because she burst out laughing and headed into the kitchen. Draco would have been more offended if he wasn't so drunk. Instead, he flopped against the sofa and listened to her hum tunelessly to herself while she prepared the ingredients. It was kind of nice. Simple. The ceiling wasn't so stupidly far away here either, though there were no house-elf shaped splotches.

Draco's brow creased. He wondered what Gonky was doing. He hoped the elf wasn't punishing himself for the slip-up about the chess game. That stupid creature always took everything too far; the last thing they needed was another repeat of the oven incident. Though Draco supposed he only had himself to blame for that one; it wasn't like he'd been much better. Not back then. Not during the Bad Days.

He closed his eyes and tried to focus on the humming. Block out all the unpleasant thoughts, block out the agitation that made his fingers twitch for cigarettes and—though he'd never admit it aloud—the harder substances he'd sworn not to touch again. When Weasley returned, he was sitting up like she had been before: perched on the sofa and hugging his knees to his chest. She frowned and resumed her seat next to him.

"You sure you're alright?" she asked, placing her hand on his arm. "You seem a bit … on edge."

Words that he'd never dared to utter found their way to the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed them back. Instead, he settled for the most innocuous. "I think I broke my house-elf."

Now it was her turn to blink. "What?"

Draco just shrugged and rested his head against her shoulder. The bottle of wine he'd consumed had well and truly kicked in, and now he was just sleepy. Weasley sighed but didn't push him away. That was how Blaise found them a minute later when he walked through the door. The dark-haired wizard paused on the threshold and eyed them both with an unreadable expression.

"You two look cosy," he observed.

Draco blinked sleepily at his friend. "Blaise." Then his eyes narrowed. "Don't eat all the pumpkin spice biscuits this time, you git. Weasley is making them for me."

Blaise raised his eyebrow. "I see someone is drunk."

"Pretty much," Weasley confirmed with a smile. "He turned up here like this not that long ago."

"Should have just sent him home," Blaise muttered. "This idiot will never leave if you don't cut him off quick; he's like a clingy leech when he's drunk."

Draco took exception to that and threw a cushion at Blaise's head. His aim struck true, much to Ginny's amusement. Blaise was less impressed.

"Smells like those biscuits are ready," Blaise mused, heading for the kitchen. "Guess I'll just help myself to …"

Draco jumped off the sofa as if he'd been zapped. "Oi, bastard, if you touch them before me, I'll—"

He stumbled a little, then paused to glare at his legs, as if he couldn't believe they'd betrayed him like that. Weasley snorted and came up behind him.

"Relax." She ruffled his hair with a careless flick of her hand. "There's more than enough to go around."

Draco knew that was probably true. He'd just wanted the first try because, well, she had made them for him, hadn't she? He couldn't even remember the last time someone had done homemade baking for him except for Gonky. Gonky didn't count.

Weasley smiled at him in that teasing way of hers and followed Blaise into the kitchen. Draco trailed after them, lost in his own thoughts. The biscuits were everything he'd hoped they'd be: hot and full of pumpkiny spice goodness. He was even able to get the first taste after all that. Blaise claimed it was only because he'd known Draco would whine and whine like a brat if they'd denied him the right. Probably true. Still, Blaise made a point to get him on his own later—after they'd eaten their fill of biscuits, of course—and it was soon clear that it was so he could figure out what had triggered this particular visit.

"You're … good, right?" Blaise asked a bit awkwardly as they stood on the terrace.

Draco's fingers got that itchy feeling again. He felt around his pockets and realised he'd left his cigarettes at the manor. Balls.

"Draco—"

"I'm good," Draco said, not quite able to repress his sigh. "Gonky is driving me up the bend, but that's nothing new."

"That's why I told you to get a job."

"Don't need one." Draco tapped out a pattern on the metal railing, hoping it would dull the itch. "I have all the money in the world. Besides, who would hire me?"

Blaise eyed him with a frown. Then he decided to change track and clapped his hand on Draco's shoulder. "You know what you really need?"

"What?"

"A woman." Blaise met his gaze, and an easy grin curved his lips. "Tomorrow night, alright? We'll go out to the club and find you a nice girl."

Draco didn't much see the appeal of that. There was only one woman he was interested in, and it wasn't like he needed to go to a club to see her. Unfortunately, Blaise wouldn't take no for an answer. He kept pushing and prodding until Draco agreed just to make the idiot shut up.

"Then tomorrow it is," Blaise said, flashing his teeth in a grin and removing his hand from Draco's shoulder. "I'll come get you from the manor. No need to come here."

"Whatever you say," Draco muttered.

His eyes drifted back to Weasley, who he could see through the glass door that separated the living room from the terrace. She was sprawled upside down on the sofa with her legs dangling over the top. The weirdo.

Draco exhaled and turned to slump against the railing. He could still taste a hint of pumpkin spice on his tongue—biscuits she had made just for him. The thought of returning to his big, empty manor with only a suicidal elf for company was not appealing at all.

 _Just a little longer_ , a voice inside him pleaded.

So Draco remained on the terrace, too lonely and lovesick to let go when Weasley was so close, and too drunk to care if anyone noticed.

* * *

Okay, I may be upping the rating of this one to M. It also might get longer than anticipated, but I'm trying to condense for the sake of my own sanity. And, yes, this is still humour, despite all those darker elements creeping through. I'm just indulging in my penchant for black humour.


	3. Dancing with the Blue Caterpillar

Rating has been upped. M warnings now stand for coarse language, adult themes, drug use, and potential triggers.

But I swear the story is still humour… *cough*

* * *

 **Dancing with the Blue Caterpillar**

Draco fidgeted with his collar. A voice kept whispering that maybe he wasn't wearing the proper attire. He cast an anxious glance at the clothes strewn all over his room, wondering if there was something better in the piles he had already tried on. What were people even supposed to wear to a club? Were the robes he wore now too much? Were his shoes too dressy? Should he just go casual like how he often saw Blaise and Ginny dressing at the apartment?

He almost considered asking for Gonky's opinion—until he remembered Gonky was a house-elf and had probably never stepped foot in a club. A tiny laugh, edged a little with hysteria, escaped Draco's lips. He'd just considered asking a house-elf for fashion advice. A fucking _house-elf._

Draco exhaled, sobering in a heartbeat as if doused with cold water. He ran a hand over his face. Why was he even worrying about this? Hadn't he decided he was only going to the club to humour Blaise? Who the fuck cared how he looked? Weasley wouldn't even be there to see him.

He ran his fingers over his chest. The area around his lungs felt too tight, like his ribs were pressing into everything and just kept tightening and tightening. It had been getting worse all day. No amount of breathing exercises and rubbing his chest—or, indeed any of that rubbish Healer Mapplethorpe had used to spout at him while he'd sat opposite her on that bloody awful chair in her bloody awful office—would make it go away either. His fingers were itching as well, so he stuffed them in his pockets. Draco had already had too many cigarettes today.

Straightening to his full height, he stared down his reflection in the mirror. "You're Draco Malfoy," he told himself.

The words were spoken as if they were meant to work like a charm: to bolster, to remind, to make him stay upright and tilt his chin just so and not— _not—_ feel like an out of sorts wreck just because he had to leave the manor and go to a place that wasn't Blaise and Weasley's apartment. Too bad the charm had lost its power a long time ago. In fact, his shoulders were already beginning to slump, and his brow creased, and his fingers itched, and all he could think was—

Gonky appeared with a pop. "Little Master, the Nosy Bastard has arrived and is waiting in the entrance hall."

Draco's breath escaped him in a whoosh. "Thanks," he said.

To his surprise, fat tears leaked from the elf's eyes. Draco froze and stared at Gonky as if the elf had just started tap-dancing and singing Happy Birthday to him instead of crying.

"What's wrong with you?" Draco demanded. "Why are you crying?"

If that elf was going to start having a freak out again, he'd—

"It's just—" Gonky said, sniffling and offering up a watery smile "—this is the first time Little Master has thanked Gonky."

Draco felt like he'd been punched in the stomach. He even flinched a little.

"Bloody elf," Draco muttered, pulling himself together. "Stop crying and go—I dunno—go get yourself some dinner or something. I won't be home till late, so don't stay up for me; that's an order."

Gonky nodded earnestly and said he hoped Little Master had a good time with the Nosy Bastard. Draco's fingernails dug into his palms. The elf's ugly, wrinkled face looked so happy and affectionate in that moment, and it just—it was sickening somehow. Like being given a hideous baby and being told it was his, so he should be happy or some bullshit. He didn't want this ugly baby. He didn't want Gonky to cry just because he'd thanked the stupid creature, and he didn't want to be told that Gonky hoped he would have a good time, because—because—

Ugh, fuck this. Draco hated self-analysing.

He fled the room without another glance at the elf. Absently, he rubbed at his too-tight chest—worse now after his conversation with the damned creature—and forced himself to do Healer Mapplethorpe's recommended breathing exercises. They actually worked this time, or maybe that was just because he was about to greet Blaise, and the last thing he needed was for that git to see something was up. Much as Draco hated self-analysing, he hated talking to others about his "problems"—as Healer Mapplethorpe had used to call them—even more. Feelings were like little wriggles of diseases that he'd rather do without. He was a Malfoy, and he was supposed to be above that shit.

So Draco forced all of his chaotic thoughts and emotions into the box labelled Deal With It Another Time (Maybe) and then made his way down the last few steps to the entrance hall. Blaise was leaning against a wall and not looking too impressed.

"I see your elf is still incapable of calling me by name," Blaise complained by way of greeting.

Draco's lips curved into a smile—the first he'd worn all day. "You know Gonky isn't good with names."

"Don't try to play innocent. It's your fault the elf thinks my name is Nosy Bastard, and we both know it. If you just ordered him to—"

"I can't order him to call you by your proper name," Draco cut in, shaking his head. "Gonky really is bad with names once a habit sticks; he'll just forever be punishing himself for slipping up, and I can't be arsed dealing with that. You know how he gets. One moment he'll be saying 'welcome, Nosy Bastard' and the next he'll be trying to throw himself off the roof."

Blaise pinched the bridge of his nose. "Your elf is cracked."

"Yes, well…"

Draco gave an awkward shrug and trailed off. The truth was that Gonky hadn't always been that way—not so extreme with his self-punishment; not to the point of putting his actual life in danger. Also, Gonky had only picked up on the nickname "Nosy Bastard" because that was all he'd heard Draco calling the dark-skinned wizard during the Bad Days; those days when Blaise had actually started to visit Draco at the manor and had realised the master was far, far more cracked than the servant.

Draco's fingers itched. He curled them into the material of his robes, hidden inside the pockets where Blaise couldn't see. "So, what club are we supposed to be going to then?" he asked, and he was pleased that his voice came out in his usual bored drawl.

Blaise stepped away from the wall. "The Rabbit Hole, of course. Where else?" Then he froze. "Wait, that's what you're planning on wearing?"

Warmth touched Draco's cheeks. "Yes?"

He hadn't meant for it to come out like a question, but somehow it did anyway. Blaise stared at him from head to foot and then he pursed his lips in disapproval—or maybe he was just trying not to laugh.

"Draco," Blaise said frankly, "you look like you're about to go for a job interview or to meet the parents of your bride-to-be for the first time. In short, you look like a twat."

Draco repressed a wince. Damn it, he'd known he wasn't dressed right. "Well, I don't bloody know what people wear to these things!" he snapped. "It's not like I'm hitting the clubs every weekend!"

"Yeah, but I mean your best dress robes?" Blaise shook his head. "It's a nightclub, idiot; it's not a dinner with the Minister of Magic."

The blond tensed, even as his cheeks burned. He felt embarrassed and exposed, and he did not like that feeling at all.

"Fuck this shit!" Draco suddenly exclaimed. "I didn't want to go to this stupid club anyway, so I'll just—"

"Wait, wait, wait!" Blaise grabbed him by the arm before he could stomp back up the stairs. "Just calm down for a moment."

"I am fucking calm! What about me says I'm not fucking calm?"

Blaise raised his eyebrow. "Your foul mouth, for one. What would your mo—"

He broke off abruptly, eyes widening. Draco's entire body tensed and pain stabbed through his heart. They were both aware of what Blaise had been about to say.

Your mother.

What would your mother think if she could hear you?

"Hey," Blaise said, clearing his throat and carefully removing his hand from Draco's arm. "I didn't mean—uh, you know I—"

"It's fine," Draco cut in flatly. "She's dead, you know. It's not like avoiding all mention of her will change that."

Blaise winced. The silence that followed was awkward and dragged on for too long. It brimmed with things that probably should be said, but neither wizard wanted to disturb that particular box. Not with a ten-foot broomstick.

"Want me to go?" Blaise finally asked.

Draco was tempted to say yes. He hadn't even left the manor yet and he already felt like a wreck. The last thing he wanted to do was go to a club and force himself to pay attention to girls he didn't give a fuck about and who probably wouldn't give a fuck about him. But, still, something made him hesitate. Maybe it was the reminder of his mother—of how he'd be left here with no distractions to stop him from thinking about her if he stayed. Maybe it was because Gonky was a damned little elf who spoke way out of his station, but even then Draco couldn't get the creature's happy smile out of his mind. Gonky had been so pleased when his "Little Master" had said he was going out with a friend; he'd said he wanted Draco to have a good time.

How humiliating would it be to turn around and say the plans had been cancelled?

Draco pressed his palm to his forehead. "Let's just go to this—this Rabbit Hole," he muttered.

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

Blaise gestured at his dress robes. "Uh, you don't want to change first so—"

Draco glared at him. Blaise took the hint and shut up. They left the manor together and exited through the front gates. Neither looked like they were expecting to have much of a fun night when they Disapparated.

 **oOo**

As it turned out, The Rabbit Hole was a popular club. Inspired by the well-known story _The Muggle in Wonderland_ —which had later been adapted for Muggles—the club drew on whimsical themes for its design. To get in, one had to literally fall through a rabbit hole tucked away in the trendier part of Diagon Alley. Then opened up a dreamland of pulsing music and dancing. The booths were giant teacups, the glowing pictures on the walls enacted scenes from the story, and lights burst and flashed in prisms of colour to create an almost psychedelic effect. In short, any normal wizard or witch loved it; Draco did not.

From the moment he had stepped inside the club, his anxiety had gone into overdrive. The music was too loud, there were too many bodies pressing against him—just crowding up the space in general. Too many sounds, too many smells, too many flashing lights. It was overwhelming. It made him want to curl into a ball on the floor and sink far, far away where nothing could touch him. His senses were being invaded, and he just couldn't handle that. He wanted his big, empty manor again.

No, he wanted the apartment and Weasley's warmth and—

A hand clapped him on the shoulder. Draco flinched and turned to find Blaise grinning at him.

"Let's find a booth," the other wizard suggested.

Draco couldn't get any words out so he just followed Blaise. There weren't any vacated booths, but then Blaise spotted a girl he'd done a photo shoot with once at the modelling agency where he worked and they ended up joining her group. It was a little too convenient: the fact there was one guy and three girls, and how he and Blaise just happened to arrive to balance everything off. Draco shot a glance at his friend but said nothing as introductions were passed around. He didn't pay attention to their names or faces either. His head was pounding now—even with the muffling charm that had been charmed into the booth to dull the music. Instead, he busied himself with looking at the drinks menu and wondering if this hellhole of a place would become any tolerable if he drowned himself in alcohol.

"Draco, wasn't it?"

The voice came from very close to his ear. It startled him a little. He wasn't even sure how much time had passed since he'd sat down at the table, but he turned his head to find a woman leaning close and smiling at him. She was very pretty: all ruby lips and come-hither eyes. His gaze dropped to her low neckline and then back to her face. Even with the dim lighting, he could tell she was the kind of woman he would have fallen over his feet for had he been a teenager. Now he saw only Galleon Digger, Too Hard to Please, and Not Worth the Effort.

He offered her a noncommittal grunt and set about ordering his drinks. Plural was a must. Blaise kicked his foot and glared.

" _Talk to her,_ " Blaise's narrowed look seemed to say.

Draco ignored the git-who-had-most-definitely-set this-up. It wasn't like it took a genius to figure out since Blaise was already looking quite snug with the woman on his right, and the other two had drifted to the dancefloor and were gyrating quite happily against one another.

Not Worth the Effort tried catching his attention again, but Draco was far more interested in his whisky. She pouted and ended up leaving with her friend to do whatever it was women do in bathrooms while out in public. Bunch of pack movers.

"What are you doing?" Blaise hissed once the two women had left.

Draco took a swig of his drink. "What does it look like?"

"Wasting the bloody opportunity I've given you is what!"

He brooded over his glass. "I'm not interested in that woman."

Blaise pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don't even know why I bother sometimes." A pause, and then he sucked in a breath. "Fine, I suppose I can't force you if you really aren't interested. What about May?"

"May?"

"The girl who was sitting next to me," Blaise said with growing exasperation. "Were you even listening earlier?"

Draco just shrugged.

"Bloody useless," Blaise muttered.

Draco said nothing. The music seemed to pound louder and louder, almost tattooing itself into his head. Which was ridiculous since the muffling charm was still in effect.

He stood up. "I'm going for a quick fag."

"You can't just—"

But Draco was already exiting the booth. He shoved his way through the crowd, once more struggling not to be overwhelmed by the onslaught to his senses: all the bodies crowding in and pressing against him; the flickering lights that danced before his eyes; the smell of sweat and alcohol, and—oh Merlin no. Merlin, Merlin _no_.

Draco froze like he'd been hit with a petrifying spell. The scent—so much sweeter and subtler than the others, yet somehow pungent and a little off—struck him like a blow to his chest. It got in his nose like a choking claw, digging all through him and making his body tense and his fingers itch.

Fairy Dust. Someone had fucking Fairy Dust. Impure as shit stuff as well, judging from the smell. But it was there. It was right fucking _there_.

He swallowed, hard, and closed his eyes. What had Healer Mapplethorpe used to say? Just ride out the cravings. Find a quiet space and accept what was going on. Picture himself on a broom and fly up and over the mountain.

The fucking mountain didn't want to end.

His Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. It felt like his fingernails were going to split the skin on his palms. He could smell Fairy Dust, and even though it wasn't the kind he liked, he wanted it. He really, really wanted it. His entire body was tense with need. It remembered the euphoria, the dizzying relief, the spinning joy that he could never, ever find anywhere else.

It remembered flying without a broom. High. High, high, high—going up and up and up as the world melted away and bliss took hold.

Fuck.

Draco trembled and told himself to get out. Get the fuck out now. Or go back to Blaise. Just do something— _anything_ —than stand there smelling that fucking drug and feeling his cravings go into overdrive. The need was a scream all through him, demanding satisfaction over and over and over. Even now, it told him that one more time wouldn't be so bad; it wasn't like he hadn't done it before, and he'd feel so much better once he did.

It told him that his parents wouldn't actually care if he relapsed again because Mother was fucking dead and Father might as well be.

It told him that all his promises meant nothing—not a fucking thing—because he was so, so weak and it wasn't like he'd ever been able to resist the cravings when they got this bad, right?

"Fuck," Draco whispered, trembling and cursing himself.

His feet moved reluctantly—so, so reluctantly—dragging on the ground as he turned towards the booth where he had left Blaise. Little by little he could do this. He had to. Then a body brushed against his and an arm looped around his waist. A girl had started dancing with him, and it was obvious from a glance, even without the sickly sweet scent that lingered all over her, that she was high off her head.

Draco closed his eyes, overwhelmed by needs and the damn music that wouldn't stop pounding into his skull. All he wanted in that moment was to be sitting opposite Weasley in her apartment and eating pumpkin spice biscuits. But she wasn't here. Even Blaise felt too far out of reach.

He let out a breath and placed his hands on the girl's hips, pulling her in closer. "What's your name?" he asked in her ear.

She said she was called Poppy. She tasted like Fairy Dust.

 **oOo**

Blaise was worried. Draco had left for his "quick fag" far too long ago. May and Gwendolyn had already returned and were getting restless. This wasn't how the "Make Draco Forget Ginny" plan was supposed to go. Blaise had set up everything to a T: Gwendolyn was on the lookout for a man and was the type Draco normally found attractive; the club was great, the alcohol was quality stuff, and good music always played for dancing. It was perfect.

Perfect until Draco ruined it by acting like a sullen bastard and then ditching.

"Where did that idiot go?" Blaise said under his breath.

Gwendolyn huffed and said she wanted to dance. May chose to go with her, leaving Blaise once more alone in the booth. He tapped his fingers on the table, shifted on his feet, sighed and rotated his glass.

"Damn that git," Blaise muttered, getting to his feet and weaving through the crowd. "If he didn't even go for a smoke and just went back to the manor, I'll …"

The irritable flow of words came to a halt when he finally found the blond. Draco had shut himself in one of the toilet stalls; he was also huddled into himself like a child and shaking. Blaise swore and knelt in front of his friend.

"Hey," Blaise said, hands hovering awkwardly but not quite touching. "What's wrong?"

Draco stared up at him with bloodshot eyes. Tear-trails stained his cheeks, but there was blood as well where it looked as if he'd had a nosebleed. "I didn't mean to," he said in a small voice.

Such a small, small voice.

Blaise's stomach gave an awful twist. "Fuck," he whispered. "Draco, tell me you didn't."

But Draco didn't. _Couldn't_. The signs were all there. The idiot had relapsed.


	4. Making Friendly with a Dragon

**Making Friendly with a Dragon**

Blaise was furious. He wanted to get mad. He wanted to hex his friend over and over for being so stupid, because Draco _knew_. That idiot bloody well _knew_. There was no way he could have forgotten what drugs had done to him: all the fear, the close calls, the forced rehab when an itch for another hit became self-destructive freefall; all the endless, endless months of anxiety and struggling. Blaise had watched it all, helpless. Now here they were again.

"Damn it, Draco," Blaise hissed, helping the blond to his feet.

Because that was the problem. Draco was well aware of his mistake; that was why he had cried and shut himself in a bathroom stall that smelt like piss and vomit. It was degrading; it was the kind of thing Draco would never have done except at his lowest. The idiot was already beating himself up, and Blaise guessed he just wasn't a big enough bastard to pour more salt into the wound. Maybe because he also knew it was really his own fault that it had come to this.

The signs had all been there. Blaise had looked away; he had been selfish.

"Are you okay?" Blaise asked. "I can take you to a healer if—"

"No." Draco pressed his hand to his face, smearing blood and crusted tear trails. "Just—just get me out of here."

 _Please._

The unspoken word was a stab to Blaise's heart. He swallowed and shifted his grip on the blond.

"Alright," he said, trying for a neutral tone. "Let's get you home."

"No!"

Blaise started at the sudden vehemence. "What?"

"Not home. Not there. I can't—not like this. That stupid elf will see me and he'll—he'll—"

Something twisted in Blaise's stomach as he listened to Draco's feverish muttering. Memories they both didn't want to relive rose to the surface. "Alright," he said thickly. "Not the manor."

Draco calmed a little, though his eyes were still glazed and bloodshot. Withdrawal hadn't quite kicked in yet, but it would. It always did.

Blaise's chest tightened and in his head a string of curses repeated. He didn't know how to fix this. He'd never known how to fix this, and that scared him. Draco was such a mess. But Blaise still had to try. There was no one else. So he swallowed back his unease, his frustration, his guilt. He stuck close to his friend and used side-Apparition to take Draco back to the apartment. Ginny was sprawled on the sofa in her pyjamas, stuffing sweets into her mouth and reading a magazine. Her eyes flickered up to them and a grin curved her lips.

"You're back early," she observed. "Didn't get lucky after all?"

"Not now," Blaise muttered distractedly.

Her grin faded. Only then did she notice that something was wrong—that Draco looked rumpled and distressed and there were little streaks of blood on his face.

"What happened?" she demanded, placing the magazine aside and getting to her feet.

Blaise just shook his head and ushered Draco into his bedroom. He shut the door—shut her out—because he knew that Draco didn't want her to see this. It had been a plea in those glazed, bloodshot eyes. The state the blond was in now was only the tip of the iceberg, and what was going to follow would be ugly and messy and would leave him stripped of all dignity.

"You can stay here," Blaise said, gesturing a bit awkwardly at the room. "I'll sleep on the sofa."

Draco sat on the edge of the bed and covered his face with his hands. "Thanks."

"Are you going to be okay? Do you need anything?"

"A vanishing bucket would be good."

"Alright."

Blaise conjured the bucket with his wand and then hesitated. Draco still hadn't moved. The silence was uncomfortable, weighted with things that needed to be said. They'd been putting off this conversation for too long. Blaise had never known how to start, and getting anything out of Draco was like trying to make friendly with a dragon. It had been easier just to pretend all was well.

Except it wasn't. It really wasn't.

A sigh escaped Blaise and he turned to leave.

"Wait."

He glanced over his shoulder. He was surprised to see Draco holding his wand out to him.

"Take it," Draco said gruffly.

Blaise wasn't able to quite mask his shock. Wizards didn't just hand over their wands to people—not when it meant they would be as helpless as a baby. Not when it was the equivalent of surrendering one's own life and magic to another's hand. That Draco did so now brought home the magnitude of the situation.

"You sure?" Blaise asked.

Draco bit his lip and averted his face. "I'll probably, you know, when it—"

He trailed off, but then he didn't need to finish the sentence. Withdrawal was ugly and vicious. Draco was probably scared of what he'd try do. Without a word, Blaise accepted the wand and tucked it inside his pocket.

"Let me know if you need anything else," he murmured.

"Yeah, alright."

All the cues said it was time to leave. Blaise didn't move. His feet didn't want to listen to his brain, never mind that this whole situation was awkward as hell and he really should just go so Draco could try to scrape together some dignity. Guilt had Blaise stuck.

"This isn't your fault, you know."

The words slipped out of him, clumsy like a drunk ballerina. Draco barely twitched.

"It's not," Blaise repeated, sensing that the blond didn't believe him. "I shouldn't have made you go to the club. I should have paid more attention." He made a frustrated sound and ran a hand through his hair. "I'm an idiot."

"You don't need to apologise," Draco said in a flat voice. "You didn't make me take the Fairy Dust. I'm the one who fucked up."

"Draco—"

" _Don't_! Don't try to dress this up as anything but what it is! I know what I did, Blaise!" He made an odd sound—not quite a hiss, not quite a laugh. It was strangled and sounded far too broken. "Do you know right now there's a voice in my head telling me to get more?" His hands trembled and he balled them into fists. "This is what I am, Blaise. This is what I fucking am!"

Blaise said nothing. A lump of what might have been words got stuck in his throat, but they would have taken no form even if he had let them out. He didn't know what to say to make this better. He never had.

Suddenly, the door burst open. Both men flinched as Ginny marched in, walking right past Blaise—and his attempt to stop her—until she was in front of Draco. The blond stiffened and stared up at her as if she was an executioner come to decapitate him from her life; his shame was so thick it was a tangible thing filling the room. Yet even then Draco struggled to put the walls up, to repair his pride, to save face in front of her. Except he couldn't. Fairy Dust had made him fly; it had also shattered him when he'd hit the ground. There was nothing left but weakness and disgrace. He had a drug problem, and everything about his appearance said as much.

 _Get out!_ those glazed eyes screamed at her. _Get out and don't look at me! Don't fucking look at me!_

Ginny didn't look away. "You're too loud," she said bluntly.

Then she hugged him.

A breath escaped Blaise's lips as he watched. Draco had stiffened so much from the contact it looked like his back would snap, but Ginny didn't let go. She held him tight in her arms—held him until the tension slowly started to ease out of his muscles and then his head was curving into her shoulder. Even in this moment, the petty tang of jealousy stung Blaise's tongue. He swallowed it back, refused to let even a drop out. He'd done enough damage with his selfishness tonight.

"I'll just be in the living room," he murmured.

Not waiting for a response, he left the two embracing and closed the door behind him. Blaise had never known how to help Draco get off the knifepoint upon which the blond had been balancing, but maybe Ginny did. Maybe she could. Blaise had to let her try.

 **oOo**

The next two days were hell. Draco was moody, violently ill, demanding, and just plain impossible to be around. Even with Blaise and Ginny sharing caretaker duties, all three of them ended up with bruise-like circles under their eyes. It was exhausting. Sometimes, Blaise was tempted to wash his hands off the whole affair—just leave the blond to his withdrawals and his foul moods and be done with it. Blaise wasn't a healer; he wasn't qualified for this. But Draco was his best friend. Plus, even Ginny kept at it without complaint. Blaise wouldn't let it be said she was the better friend, even if she did have a knack for getting Draco to calm down more than him.

"You look like shit," Ginny said cheerfully as she joined him in the living room.

Blaise scowled at her.

"Now you look like Draco."

He flipped her off.

She laughed and handed him a cup of tea. "Here. Just how you like it."

The offering mollified him enough to make him tilt his head and quirk his eyebrow at her. Ginny stretched her arms above her head and collapsed on the sofa, legs sprawling everywhere with zero attempt at lady-like grace. Her baggy T-shirt was stained and there was a hole in the knee of her pyjama bottoms. The red, greasy thing she called hair was pulled into a lopsided topknot. For someone who said he looked like shit, she wasn't doing much better. Just looking at her made him want to drag her into a shower, wash that disgusting mop on her head, and force her into some proper clothes. Still, Ginny didn't seem to care. She let out a jaw-cracking yawn and shifted into a more comfortable positon, smiling like a contented cat.

"How do you do it?" Blaise asked in wonder.

The words slipped free before he could stop them.

Ginny opened one eye to look at him. "Do what?"

"How do you stay so happy all the time?" He furrowed his brow. "I knowyou're tired; I know you must be as sick of this as I am, but you're just so—so—" he flailed for words and settled for making an awkward gesture with his hands.

Ginny snorted and sat up straighter. "Of course I'm tired. Draco has been a total arse. He knows it as well."

"Then why? Why even bother? No one asked you to do this."

She shrugged and curled one knee against her chest. Her topknot seemed to get even more lopsided. Blaise wished he knew what was going on in her head. She was surprisingly difficult to read for someone so blunt and unapologetic.

"I just want him to get better, I guess," she said after a moment. "It sounded like he was going to give up on himself."

"That's it?"

Her fingers tugged at the threads fraying from the hole that bared her knee. "Mum did say I liked to collect strays as a kid."

"So, it's just a pity thing?"

She shrugged again. "I dunno, Blaise. Why are you asking me all this now?"

Blaise supposed he was being nosy. He just worried. Petty and possessive as he was, he had recognised that Ginny could give something to Draco that he could not. The wounded dragon that had always snapped its teeth at him had become docile under her touch. Almost dependent. That was a problem if she wasn't planning to stick around.

"You're involved now," Blaise said, his voice uncharacteristically grim. "Draco isn't a stray you can just look after for a while and then send on his way."

"I'm aware of that."

Her tone was dry. She thought he was being an idiot. Blaise wished he was.

"Listen," he said, placing the cup of tea and saucer on the table. "This isn't the first time Draco has relapsed."

"I gathered as much."

"Then you should know that this—what he's going through—it isn't going to be an easy fix." Blaise shook his head. "Frankly, his drug issues are the least of his problems."

She rested her chin on her knee. "What's your point?"

"My point?" he echoed, a bit at a loss. "Isn't it obvious? You said you want him to get better, right? Well, what if he doesn't?" His eyes sought hers. "Are you prepared for that? Are you prepared for the fact you might not be able to fix him? Because if you're not—if you're just going to decide he's too much work—then you should back off now."

Ginny twisted her lips in what might have been amusement. "Blaise, I'm just trying to help a friend; it's not like I'm planning to marry the guy."

 _Except he has feelings for you,_ Blaise wanted to say. Not that he did. Draco would kill him.

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Just be careful. He's more fragile than you think."

A hint of humour flickered in her eyes. "I don't think he'd be too happy to hear you call him fragile."

Blaise gave her a _look_. Ginny held her hands up in an appeasing gesture.

"Alright, alright," she said, getting to her feet. "Consider me warned. I'll be sure to treat the princess with the utmost delicacy and care."

His lips twitched despite himself. "Princess?"

"It's my new nickname for him. Suits him, no?"

Blaise couldn't help but chuckle. "I'm surprised you're still in one piece if you've been calling him that."

"Oh, he hates it," she agreed with a grin, "but it's not like he would actually do anything to me. He's all bark and no bite."

Blaise didn't correct her. He knew that Draco's bite was, in fact, much, much worse than his bark. Ginny just had never had to deal with that side of the blond. For whatever reason, Draco had been completely smitten by this woman.

She stretched her arms above her head with another yawn. "Anyway, finish your tea and then you should get out and do something—have a break. You really do look like shit, and we can't have that." A dimple appeared. "Your pretty face is all you've got going for you."

He rolled his eyes but said nothing as he watched her head back into the bedroom where Draco was sleeping. Ginny Weasley always did as she pleased. Blaise just hoped she knew what she was doing this time.

 **oOo**

Draco woke to find Weasley crouched on the floor next to him. She had her elbows resting on the bed and her chin propped on her palms. He blinked slowly. The image didn't change.

"Weasley," he said, unsticking his throat. His head was still throbbing dully, but the worst of his symptoms had calmed. "Has anyone ever told you it's creepy when you sit really close to a person and watch them sleep?"

"Nope." She popped the P on the word and grinned at him. "You're the only one I like to watch sleep like a creeper. Feel special?"

He rubbed a hand over his face. "Sure. It's a real honour."

She laughed and uncurled herself from the floor. "Get up. You've been lying in that bed for too long."

He groaned. The thought of facing the world was not appealing. In truth, it was still a bit awkward just being around her. Draco was the type who liked to impress the girls he fancied; there was nothing "cool" about a relapsing addict experiencing drug withdrawals. She'd seen him make friends with a vanishing bucket, seen him suffer from diarrhoea and stomach cramps, seen him rage and cry and threaten when the cravings got too much. It was humiliating. She might have faced it all without flinching—had even _hugged_ him on multiple occasions—but Draco still felt too raw and exposed. It was like his chest had been opened and there was his heart all vulnerable and squishy for her to step on as she pleased. He didn't much like that feeling.

Weasley's hands found his. "Come on." She tugged him up with surprising strength; he didn't know where she hid it in that tiny body of hers. "I'm not taking no for an answer."

Draco met her gaze and saw all the warmth and brightness that had first captivated him. Damn him for being such a lovesick fool; there was no way he could resist. He sighed and resigned himself to her manhandling. Before long, he was sitting on one of the stools in the kitchen and she was demanding to know what he wanted to eat.

"I know you haven't had much appetite these few days," she said in a shift to a more serious tone, "but you've got to eat something." Then she propped her elbows on the bench in front of him and smiled in a way that made his stomach flutter. "So, what'll it be?"

He swallowed. "Oh, er, I dunno."

Weasley's brow furrowed. "What? The princess has no demands this time?"

His lips pursed with all the rapidness of sucking on a sour lemon. "I told you not to call me that."

"I know."

Her tone suggested she didn't care either. Draco's temple twitched.

"Oh, relax," she said, ruffling his hair in that careless way of hers. "I'm only teasing. You're such a stiff sometimes."

Draco patted his hair back into place, wondering why she always insisted on touching him. His hair, his hands, just his person in general. Weasley could never keep to herself. The lovesick part of him wanted to believe that meant something; the more pragmatic part told him he was a pathetic sop grasping straws. There was absolutely no reason for this woman to care about him in that way—especially not after his relapse.

Weasley started humming as she used her wand to direct pans and pots to the stove, along with slicing up fruit and toasting bread. At his stunned look, she explained that since he couldn't decide what he wanted, she'd just make him a whole bunch of food and he could pick and choose as he pleased. More butterflies stirred in his stomach. That was annoying, too. It was just food, but those fluttery swoops acted like she'd made a declaration of love. He wished.

"Why are you going to so much effort?" he couldn't help but ask.

It was something that had been bothering him these past few days. He and Weasley had never been particularly close, much as he'd hoped for otherwise.

Weasley stilled with her back to him. "Isn't it obvious?"

That was a question loaded with meaning. He wished he could see her expression. Then she did turn to face him, but all he got was an impish grin.

"I'm gathering favours." She gave him a light flick to his forehead. "You're going to be my slave forever before the end of this."

Draco made a scoffing noise and swatted her hand away. She laughed in that free, easy way of hers and carried on cooking, but it was a moment before his heart was able to settle back to a more natural rhythm. That jumpy little organ whispered in its quickened beats that she'd been flirting with him just then. His more logical mind pointed out she was like that with everyone.

 _Don't read into what doesn't exist. She probably just pities you and wants to spare your feelings._

Right. That made a bit too much sense.

Draco exhaled heavily. Pity was something he did not want. Still, as he listened to Weasley hum and prepare food for him, he couldn't help but indulge in a fantasy—just a little. He told himself she'd spent the past few days helping him get back on his feet because she genuinely cared. He told himself it was attraction, not simple playfulness, that made her touch and tease and get closer to him than others dared.

He told himself it didn't matter if he was a piece of shit junkie with baggage as big as the manor he called home.

Of course, that was where the fantasy ended. He knew that no woman in her right mind would want a guy like him except to use him for his money. Weasley wasn't exactly a Galleon digger either. Draco sighed. Weasley kept humming.

* * *

I don't think I've ever written a Draco who is so sickeningly in love. It's weird, haha.

Anyway, this chapter is full of aaaangst, but can't really help that when Draco has got issues. I promise cute DG interactions are on the way!

Also, I'm too sleepy to edit this properly. Point out typos and I'll go fix them later.


	5. Home

**Home**

"Isn't it a nice morning?"

Draco scowled and shoved his hands even more in his coat pockets. Weasley could try to smile and say inane, positive things all she liked, but there was nothing nice about this morning. It was bloody freezing. The dregs of autumn leaves were brown mush under his feet, dampened by the heavy rain that had fallen overnight. There were too many puddles, too many people. Who the hell got up to go jogging and walking at ungodly hours in the morning anyway? Bloody weirdos.

A freckled face popped up closer to his level and two fingers forced up the corners of his mouth.

"The fuck," he said, swatting her hands away.

She laughed and lowered from her tiptoes back to her usual height. "You're so sour."

"It's not even noon, Weasley."

"So?"

"So it's not even noon." He sighed like the most put upon man in the history of all men. "I want my bed."

She latched onto his hand, swinging it slightly as she tugged him along with her. "Suck it up. You need fresh air, so here we are. Ooh, look at that cute dog!"

He glowered at her, ready to tell her exactly where she could shove her fresh air and furry animals, but then he caught her gaze and all the brightness that seemed to radiate from her. His breath was gone. It had been punched out of his lungs by a cheeky smile and freckles. Merlin, how could he fight this woman? Why would he even want to?

He tightened his grip on her hand, almost convulsive. She paused and cocked her eyebrow at him, but then she simply flashed a bigger smile and continued with him hand-in-hand. It was … nice. Her hand was small and a bit chilled, but it soon warmed within his. It made him think soppy thoughts like how it felt their hands fit perfectly together. She didn't try to pull away either; in fact, she only tugged him closer so their arms bumped with every step. That triggered a different kind of warmth—one that started somewhere around his heart and spread all the way to his toes.

Draco wondered how it was that he could feel so grounded by her touch yet also like he was free-falling.

"Maybe you should get a dog."

He blinked and stared at the redhead. "What?"

"Dogs are great. Good company for—"

"Why the fuck would I want a dog? They smell, shed hair, and they piss and poop everywhere."

Her lips twitched. "You said poop."

"Don't be juvenile."

She tugged him to a stop and released his hand, but only to sneak both her hands in the inside of his coat, skimming along his sides and around to his back. He twitched at the contact, pulse quickening. Their chests brushed.

"What are you doing?" he asked, irritated by the faint heat he could feel on his cheeks.

"Warming my hands."

"You have coat pockets."

She linked her hands on the small of his back. "Mm, but your coat is nicer and it's better like this. Now I can steal all your warmth."

His face went hotter. Fuck, he was blushing. She was going to notice any moment.

"Anyway, you should get a dog."

That derailed his flustering. He scrunched his nose. "Again with the fucking dog. Why do you care so much?"

"Because I think it would be better for you to have a companion at that big, gloomy manor of yours."

"I have Gonky."

Her eyebrows disappeared into her fringe. "I wouldn't say your suicidal elf makes good company."

"Blaise told you about him?"

"A bit."

He quietly detached himself from her, turning the other way. "Oh."

She allowed him a moment before placing her hand on his arm. "You want my honest opinion?"

"What?"

"You and Gonky need a break from each other, or at least a change of pace. Kind of sounds like the whole thing has got a bit … toxic."

His eyes met hers, startled by the rare serious tone. Then she grinned.

"And that's why you should get a dog!"

He sighed dramatically and rolled his eyes. "For fuck's sake. I don't want a dog, Weasley."

She latched onto his arm like a third limb. "Why not? Wait, are you a cat person?" She looked him up and down. "You do seem more of a cat person now that I think about it."

"I don't want a fucking cat either! They're just as bad as dogs!"

Weasley actually pouted. "Then what kind of pet do you want?"

"None! I already have an owl, and that's enough."

"But owls are so … uncuddly."

"Good. I don't do cuddly."

She wrapped her arms around him in a very cuddly manner. "Really? Not even a bit?"

Heat spread on his cheeks, his ears, and even down his collar. He opened and closed his mouth a few times before pushing her back, though not at all roughly. "Why do you always do this?" he muttered.

She tilted her head like a curious bird. "Do what?"

His mind screamed at him to shut up—because Merlin knew he was blushing like some grotesque thing of pink and was about to fuck up everything—but it was like he'd been force-fed truth potion. The words spilled out of him, graceless and exposing.

"This!" He pointed between them. "You're always touching me and flirting with me like it's nothing, and I don't fucking get it! What do you want from me? Is it just to amuse yourself? Because it's fun to string along the junkie? Do you even care at all or are you like this with every fucking guy? Why are you so, so …"

Her smile was gone. So was the light in her eyes. He wanted to crawl into a hole and die.

"Fuck," he groaned, pressing his hands to his face. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

He turned abruptly and marched away, to hell with dignity. He had just blahed all his feelings at her like some whiny, self-entitled prick struggling through his first love. He didn't want to be _that guy_. He had wanted to impress her, to win her over. He had not wanted to make a fucking scene and throw his feelings at her face like she was somehow obligated to return them.

"Draco."

He could hear her footsteps catching up. Draco was ashamed to admit he panicked—so much, in fact, that he whipped out his wand and Disapparated on the spot. Yes, it was cowardly, but he had never claimed to be brave. Experience told him he'd been about to get dumped (which was depressing, since they'd never even made it to the dating stage). He'd rather listen to Gonky sing Celestina Warbeck's greatest hits than have it confirmed Ginny Weasley had zero romantic interest in him.

The manor loomed before his eyes, pristine and beautiful, but also so enormously large and empty. It was like coming back to a cage, or maybe just a tomb.

A loud crack made him flinch.

"Little Master has returned!" Gonky said with watery-eyed joy.

Draco glanced down at the elf. "Were you lonely, Gonky?"

The elf blinked. "Gonky is not entitled to be lonely. If Little Master chooses to—"

"Fuck." Draco sighed and pressed his face to his hands once again. She was right. This was a huge, toxic mess.

 **oOo**

"Where's Draco?" Blaise questioned, shrugging off his coat.

After all the days Draco had spent at their apartment, it was odd to find Ginny sitting alone on the sofa with her knees pulled up against her chest. Her feet were bare and there was flaking nail polish on her toes. There were also lots of creases on her brow. It took a few goes of calling her name before she finally raised her head to meet his gaze.

"I think I made a mistake."

Shit.

"What happened?" he asked, coming to join her on the sofa. "Is Draco okay? Do I need to—"

"I'll be back later." She stood up and grabbed her wand. "Maybe."

"What do you mean _maybe_? Ginny!"

She glanced at him over her shoulder. "I thought I should give him space to calm down after he ran off, but that idiot is all worked up. Don't worry, I'll make sure he doesn't do anything stupid."

"Hey, wait a minute. You just can't—at least put some shoes on!"

She poked her tongue out at him, then vanished with a pop.

Blaise sighed in exasperation. That woman was so frustrating. Still, the fact she'd poked her tongue at him was reassuring. She wouldn't do that if the situation was actually serious … would she?

Something unpleasant wriggled in his stomach. An inkling of what might have happened began to trickle into his thoughts. Some kind of confession must have been made. It was the only explanation for why Draco would run off, why she'd thought she needed to give him space, and why she'd gone to him now without asking Blaise to come along. After all, they were all friends. They'd all been in this together.

But he hadn't been invited.

" _I'll be back later. Maybe."_

Blaise sat down on his favourite chair and glanced around the empty apartment. The selfish part of him wondered what would happen next—how it would impact him. But even as he thought this, there was another part of him that realised it wasn't his business. That it never had been. He couldn't own his friends; they were three separate people, and he'd already done enough damage by trying to interfere.

So he didn't chase after Ginny like he wanted. He picked up a magazine from the coffee table and flicked through the pages. Whatever happened next was in her hands.

 **oOo**

Draco was leaning against one of the pillars and smoking a cigarette when he saw her turn up. The vibrant red of her hair flickered like fire, brighter than every colour painting the manor grounds, and commanding all his attention to focus on her. It was like a splash of life and warmth had just appeared. He almost dropped his cigarette. "Weasley," he breathed.

"There you are," she said, locking eyes with him and approaching in confident steps.

His cheeks warmed. He opened his mouth to respond, but then there was an exuberant woof and a black Scottish terrier went racing past, Gonky at its heels.

"Wait, Master Brutus!" Gonky cried. "Wait! I haven't finished brushing you!"

Weasley paused, eyebrows vanishing into her hair. "You have a dog."

His cheeks got hotter and he averted his face. "You were the one who said I should get one."

"Yeah, but … I didn't actually expect you to go through with it. I mean, you were all 'they just smell and shed fur and poop everywhere.'"

"This one doesn't shed much. Besides, I got it for Gonky, not me. He'll be the one taking care of it."

She stared at him for a long moment. Then her shoulders started shaking, then a snort escaped, then she was clutching her stomach and laughing outright.

"What?" he grumbled. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing." She straightened, and a smile lingered on her lips. "You just never change, that's all."

He scowled and took a drag of his cigarette, not sure if that was a compliment. It was hard to tell with her. She had always been an odd paradox of expressiveness and unreadability. Plus, she loved to tease him.

"Why are you here anyway?" he asked, looking the other way.

"Uh, because you ran off."

"That was hours ago."

She closed the last few steps between them. He swallowed, conscious of the way his heart quickened into a pounding beat. Damn it, why could he never control himself around her? It was so frustrating, so pathetic.

"Draco, I'm gonna be honest, okay?"

His jaw clenched. "Look, if you're here because you think it's kinder to reject me to my face, it's really not. Do it in a fucking owl. I won't care."

He made to walk past her and head inside the manor, but she grabbed his arm.

"Hey! Can you stop running off for one second and just listen to me?"

His gaze flickered to hers, vulnerable and wary. "What?"

"First, lose the scowl."

His frown only deepened.

"Or not." She shook her head and snatched the cigarette from him, taking a puff before he could protest. All he could do was blink at her.

"Since when do you smoke?" he asked.

"I don't." Then her face splint into a grin. "But it looks like my distraction worked. You're not frowning at me all grumpy face now."

He couldn't help his small laugh—typical Weasley and her randomness—and then he leaned back against the pillar in resignation. "Alright, fine. Hit me with it. What did you come here to say?"

She took another puff, going quiet as she gathered her thoughts. "I said I'd be honest, right? Truth is I … don't really know how I feel. The whole romance thing, I'm not good at it. I haven't wanted to be in a relationship since I broke up with Harry years ago."

His heart sunk a few levels, weighty like a ship filling with water. "Oh."

"But …"

His eyes darted back to hers.

"But I do like being around you. A lot, actually. I guess that's why I couldn't help flirting with you. You're good to talk to, you're attractive, you're also a total weirdo sometimes—"

"What?" he spluttered, unable to let that one slide. "Have you even looked at yourself? You're not even wearing shoes!"

"—and I know there's a lot of things you're working through."

Draco bit his lip. Yes, that was certainly true.

"And I guess that's the thing. I just don't know if I'm the best person to do this with you." She shrugged. "We're really different, and maybe we'll just end up cocking things up for each other, but if you wanna give this a try …" she let out a breath and held his gaze, "then let's give it a try, yeah? Let's see if we can make it work."

He blinked. "Wait, you mean you're not rejecting me?"

"Nope." She popped the P. "That was pretty much me asking you to be my boyfriend."

"Huh."

It was about all he could say. He was still trying to comprehend the fact that no rejecting had occurred. She had seen him at his worst, yet she was okay with that? She was okay with trying to make a relationship work with him?

She leaned up to kiss him on the cheek. "See, pays to not run off, eh?"

Draco rolled his eyes at her cheeky smile, though he felt decidedly mushy and happy inside. He accepted the cigarette back from her and pulled her against him in a one-armed embrace. She tilted her head back to meet his gaze.

"And here I thought you don't do cuddling."

"I'll make an exception for you."

Two spots of colour dusted her cheeks, and then her lips curved even wider. "That was actually pretty smooth. I'm impressed."

Draco smirked—mostly because he couldn't think of anything good to say, and he didn't want to spoil the moment now that he'd finally managed to look cool in front of her—and then relaxed with her into the embrace. They both watched as Gonky went running past again, still chasing after an excited Brutus. The elf's long ears were flapping everywhere.

"You think Gonky is actually happy with his new friend?" she asked.

"Trust me, he calls the dog Master Brutus. He already considers that thing part of the family."

And maybe Draco did too, just a bit. For a smelly, furry thing, it wasn't so bad. At least the manor wasn't so awful quiet anymore. Even Gonky was looking more cheerful. Little by little, all their ghosts were being chased away. Little by little, the manor was beginning to feel like a home again and not just a tomb of old grief, nightmares and regrets.

He tightened his hold on Ginny and enjoyed the feeling of her warmth against his side. They continued to share his cigarette, quiet and with no rush. It was enough.

* * *

We have reached the end!

I admit I planned to do a lot more with this fic, but in the end I decided to condense it down. Got too many works in progress going on as it is. Hope you still enjoyed!


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